The Death of Hope
by Stargazer Nataku
Summary: Boromir keeps watch the last night of his life. 1st person Boromir POV.


Author's Note:  Eep!  Second ravenous plot bunny in two days.  Not sure this one was of as good quality as the one yesterday, but this is what came from it.  Boromir musing the last night of his life (though of course he doesn't know it is. ;-) )  I don't know if I'm too keen on how I portrayed him in this, not completely, but I must comply with the plot bunny.  They're dangerous, you know, if you don't do what they say.

Disclaimer: Once again, don't own them.  Not making any money.  Don't sue, unless you want bills or homework.  That's all I have.

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**_The Death of Hope_**

**_By_**

**_Stargazer Nataku_**

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            The night is dark, and the only sounds are the river flowing ever southward and the creaking of the trees in the winter wind that blows from the north, causing me to shiver and pull my cloak ever closer about me.  The rest of the Company sleeps, even the Elf Legolas, though his eyes remain open as he wanders the paths of Elven dreams.  I value Legolas for all he has done for the company and for me, but I am not comfortable near him, not anymore.  Not since Lóthlorien.  I shudder as I recall the Elf-witch's eyes in mine, feel again the despair as she shows me images of my city burning, fallen, the soldiers of my father fighting to an end that there is no longer any avoiding.  The fall of Gondor replays again and again in my thoughts, even as the memory of her voice echoes in my ears.

            _Even now there is hope left, son of Gondor._

But I cannot see it.  In the darkness of the night, when it seems as if I alone am the only being awake in all of Middle-Earth and the lands beyond the sea, I cannot see it, can no longer feel that there is perhaps a future for my people.

            It is because the echo of Galadriel's voice is not the only echo I hear in my heart, a whispering voice, so desirable, so bewitching that it is hard to ignore.  Part of me wishes to heed its soft promises, its whispers of aid for my homeland besieged, to use it to grasp hold of that which I desire more than anything else; to see the glory of Gondor restored and my people joyful.  They are weary; years of toil and war, watching and waiting lie hard upon them.  I could bring them this weapon, this hope with which to end the reign of Sauron once and for all.

            But this is not true, and deep in my heart I know this, though this part of me grows ever weaker as we move south.  I am weak; I have already proved myself so.  My eyes fall on Aragorn, asleep near Frodo.  He does not trust me, though I think he depends on me.  I remember the look on his eyes the day I held the Ring aloft on Caradhras, saw the almost imperceptible movement of his hand to his sword.  He would have attacked me, killed me, if I had forced him to. I know this, and I respect him for it, just as I respect him for saving my life in the darkness of Moria.  He is a great man, a strong man, one who could lead our people to a final victory.  I had hoped to persuade Aragorn to come to Minas Tirith, to take him before my father and give him and all our people a reason to hope.  But Aragorn is also a willful man, and he will not be swayed.  He will walk into the fires of Mordor, and he will never walk out of them.  No man can enter Mordor and live.  I have lived my entire life in the shadow of those lands, my gaze has ever been set to the darkness eastward, and I know this.

            I sigh, in the darkness of the night, and in that moment, the moon comes out from behind the clouds, lighting the night until it seems to be almost day, with everything bathed in a soft glowing light.  I shut my eyes, for the light is as the lights of the city of Caras Galadron; it shines the same way through the darkness.  I do not wish to remember, I wish to forget the terrible weakness I felt when I heard her voice in my ears.  The Lady Galadriel did not trust me either; I could see it in her eyes.  She could read my weakness, just as Aragorn recognized it.

            __

_            The quest stands on the edge of a knife.  Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all._

_            There is still hope, son of Gondor._

I cannot see it.  My gaze strays to Frodo.  He carries such a heavy burden, so needlessly.

No, not needlessly.  He toils to save us all.

It is folly.  Why should we throw away the only hope we have within our grasp?

It is not hope, it will only destroy.  There is no hope.  Not anymore.

I shift my position, casting my glance over the fellowship again; the four hobbits, Elf, Dwarf, and Man.  My thoughts stray to the one who is forever lost.  My brother will be grieved to hear Gandalf is dead, if he does not know already.  I wonder then what Faramir would think if he were here, now, at this moment.  He has always been able to see through me, to know my heart.  Would he be ashamed of me, that I am so tempted, so close to despair?  Or would he turn kind eyes upon me, eyes that understand the weakness of us lesser men, even as they offer me hope that there is still strength left in the world.  

            For not the first time I wonder just what would have changed had it been Faramir who had undertaken the quest that I insisted upon.  Would he be sitting here now, in the darkness of the night, mourning his own weakness, even as he loses the battle against it?  I doubt it, but I know not.

            Suddenly, there is a movement on the other side of camp, and my gaze snaps back to the area where the hobbits all sleep together.  One of them has risen to his feet, and slowly and silently moves towards me.  In the bright light of the moon, Merry's face is outlined distinctly as he comes to sit beside me.  "Is something the matter, little one?" I whisper to him.

            "No," he answers, "But I cannot sleep, so I thought I'd keep you company.  After all, there's no sense in both of us being awake and not keeping each other company, is there?"  I am silent for a moment, as a smile spreads across my face.  I am glad Merry and Pippin came along on this quest, though at first I was irritated, for I did not see how they could be any use.  But now I see that they have all the characteristics I have always honored in other men, valor, courage, loyalty…yet they are different somehow.  Though the path is dark, they smile and laugh, making light of the whole quest.  They have made the long days and dark nights bearable, for no matter how much grief we suffer, how many hardships we face, they do not lose those innocent mannerisms that I have seen so rarely in my years of life.  Children in Gondor grow old before their time, poisoned by the darkness ever about us and the difficulties of the life we must lead.  Merry and Pippin do not lose it, even after we suffered so with Gandalf's death.  It is tempered by their grief, but not gone.

            "Nay, Master Merry," I whisper back, "No sense at all.  I am grateful for your company."  This is true.  When I am with him, the whispered lure of the Ring fades to near silence, and I can ignore it.  We are silent, sitting together for a long moment, before he speaks again.

            "Tell me of Gondor," he asks.  We have done this often, around the campfire at night, back in the days when it was still safe to light one.  I have asked him of the Shire, and he has asked me of Gondor, and we learn more about each other and why we have become what we are.  "What would you hear of it?" I question him.

            "Anything," he answers again, then adds, "It doesn't matter."

            "Well," I say, pausing, and I ponder what to tell him, when my beloved City comes to my mind's eye.  "My home is the White City, Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard," I begin, knowing I have said this to him many times before.  "It is built on a hill of white stone, save the outer wall which was made of the same black stone that the men of the West used to fashion Orthanc in the early days.  No conqueror has ever passed through the Great Gates in the first wall."  I continue to tell him of the beauty of my city, of the people who live there, of the White Tower and standing atop it at dawn, looking far across the fertile field of the Pelennor to the great wall that enclosed those lands.  I tell him how, from the top of the tower, you can see the ruins of Osigiliath, the Citadel of the Stars, and the great river flowing ever southward towards the great sea.  I pause after I speak of Osigiliath's ruin, and I remember with reluctance the fall of our last camp there to the dark forces, from which only four men returned.  I shiver, remembering.

            We are silent before, in order to keep my mind from the dark thoughts which threaten to overcome me, I speak again.  "Tell me of the Shire, Merry," I whisper.  He seems to sense my change in mood, and looks at me, as if thinking very hard about something.

            "What troubles you?" he asks.  I want to confide in him, tell him of my dark thoughts, but it seems to have no place in his world.  He can never understand what the darkness of my world means, what fears and struggles have brought me to this moment, when I am torn between doing what I desire and the desires that evil places upon me.  I wish to tell him of my weakness, ask him to give me some of his strength, his resistance to the call of the Ring.  But I do not.  I force myself to give him a smile I do not feel, and ask again….

            "Tell me of the Shire, please."  There is almost a begging quality to my voice, hidden beneath the neutral tone I have taken.  He does not speak for a moment, staring at me in concern, and then he nods and begins to speak.  And he tells me of the beauty of the Shire, and of Buckland, his home, and of the Old Forest and swimming in the Brandywine River.  He is proud that he can swim.  "Most hobbits can't you know," he says, pride evident in every whispered tone.  "We Brandybucks are seen as quite cracked because we can."  I find myself chuckling quietly.  His eyes shine in the moonlight as he listens to me laugh.  "They always saw my father as cracked, too, because he liked to go to Bree and trade stories with the Big Folk and hobbits at the inns there.  Most hobbits don't like to leave the Shire, you know.  It's odd when they go even as far as Bree."

            "And yet here you are," I say.

            "Yes," he answers, and there is a slight longing in his voice.

            "Why did you decide to come?" I ask, though I know the answer.

            "Because Frodo couldn't do it by himself," he says with a shrug, "Although he would have.  He was going to leave us behind in the Shire, didn't even tell us what he was going to do.  But Sam told us, and we insisted on coming.  And," Merry continued, "I suppose I did want to see the world outside of the Shire, though I didn't think we'd have to come this far."  I nod.  

            "It is a long road," I say, thinking back to my own road.  For nearly four months I had journeyed northward, not knowing if I would ever find what I sought, forced to walk the majority of the distance after losing my horse.  I remember how I had nearly lost hope, and was prepared to die alone and far away from home without ever fulfilling my quest.  Yet just when I had reached despair, I heard voices speaking in Elvish, and my despair melted away as they agreed to lead me to my goal.

            "Why did you come?" Merry asks me suddenly, and I am taken aback.

            "Because it was my duty," I answer after a moment, "Because I had to travel south to return home again."  _*And because part of me believes in this quest, though I think there is no hope of its completion.  Because I've spent all my life fighting the darkness, and while this trinket corrupts the hearts of all it touches, the darkness shall never disappear.  Because Sauron will never be defeated while it still exists.*_

_There is still hope, son of Gondor._

Merry nods, and gives a large yawn.  "If you are ready to sleep, Merry," I say, "Do not let me keep you from your bed."

            "There's no bed to keep me from," he says with a laugh, "But I do believe there's a patch of ground over there that must serve as one."

            "Indeed," I say, and share his laughter.

            "Goodnight, Boromir," he says, reaching out and squeezing my shoulder with one of his small hands.

            "Goodnight, Merry," I reply, mimicking the gesture.  I watch him as he goes off to sleep, lying down beside Pippin, who almost unconsciously moves towards him.  I smile, thinking back to the days before Moria, when even this journey seemed brighter, happier.  I remember teaching them how to use their swords, and how they treated even something so serious as a game, while still learning all I had time to teach them.  I remember how I cut Pippin one day, just before we attempted the mountain, and how I had been suddenly worried, afraid that I had caused great injury, but he came back.  Pippin kicked me in the shin, and then together Merry and Pippin brought me down, laughing all the while.  "For the Shire!" they had cried, with the enthusiasm they show in everything, laughing all the while.  And I had laughed too, wrestling with them just as I had when I was just a boy, and for a moment, I felt like the boy I used to be.

            Remembering that moment and all the moments we've had since then, I decide that I stay for a different reason.  I stay to protect them, Merry and Pippin, because as much as they have learned, I do not feel they are up to the task ahead.  Not alone.  Aragorn and Sam and to a certain extent Legolas and Gimli seemed to be only concerned with the Ring-bearer.   I know better than to even go near him, for I fear the thing he carries and I can see the distrust in his eyes.

            There is movement out of the corner of my eye, and I turn.  Legolas has risen, and he moves without any sound to my side.  "I shall watch awhile, Boromir," he says, "Rest while you may."  I nod without speaking to him and move to the side where I rested my bedroll earlier.  I lie down and shut my eyes, trying to will sleep to come.  Yet it is elusive, for ever in the corner of my mind I hear the whispers…

_There is still hope, son of Gondor._

_Why destroy what hope you have?  I can give you the glory you so desperately seek…_

_The quest stands on the edge of a knife.  Stray but a little and it will fail to the ruin of all._

_Victory can be yours…_

I press my eyes tightly shut.  I must sleep, for tomorrow we shall reach Rauros, and the final, most difficult part of our journey shall begin.  After much trouble, sleep finds me, and I surrender to it and the dark dreams it now holds for me.  


End file.
